


In Which Stiles Contemplates (And Irrelevant Titles Are Made)

by CrimsonAccent



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Gen, Kid Fic, baby sciles, mentions of drinking, mentions of grief
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-14
Updated: 2013-08-14
Packaged: 2017-12-23 10:54:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,547
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/925533
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CrimsonAccent/pseuds/CrimsonAccent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles goes to Scott's house because his Dad is talking about his Mom again. Appearances made by rude!Agent McCall and puppy!Scott McCall.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Which Stiles Contemplates (And Irrelevant Titles Are Made)

The Beacon Hills Preserve can be annoying and suffocating sometimes. It winds around half of the town, the sea surrounding a peninsula of houses built in the 1970s. Sometimes, people see Beacon Hills as a split city: the Hale half to the west, and the Town half to the east.

The hospital, the police station, and the comic shops give the east the feel of a town verging on a city, and the old, original school sits smack dab in the middle of no man’s land, between Hale and Town on the southern edge of Beacon Hills.

But, the divide can be useful sometimes, Stiles thinks, such as when he wants to sneak out to Scott’s. The summer heat means that even if the sun has gone down, leaving him with just the moon to guide him, Stiles doesn’t have to worry about grabbing a jacket before leaving.

He can bolt straight out when his Dad starts talking about Mom and telling stories to his bottles, like he used to go over cases with Stiles before tucking him into bed. Stiles bites his lip and keeps on the alert, even if he could make his way down the dirt path blindfolded. Every kid knows about wild animals and the dangers of wandering the woods at night, at least if they live in the western half of Beacon Hills.

The trees loom high over him, like a crowd reaching for the sky, and make Stiles feel even smaller and more isolated than usual. It’s not so bad with Scott, because they can see eye to eye, and watch each other’s back, but the air in the woods is energized. Stiles tells himself that there are no eyes in the shadows, but can’t quite get his mind on board. He knows the invisible spectators are there. He walks a little faster, straights his back, and stops shuffling. If he acts strong, he won’t feel weak.

It’s only three-fourths of a mile to Scott’s house, or 3,960 steps. Scott had borrowed a pedometer from his mom’s dresser a month ago, and they’d measured it out, when Stiles couldn’t banish the hospital from his mind. Stiles thinks he must be halfway there by now. He recognizes the tree split down the middle and scorched black by lightening last year.

Most people would find the woods confusing, nothing but trees and leaves and hunting trails that barely counted as paths. But Stiles has an innate sense of direction and adding landmarks to his mental map kept his brain busy enough to keep him from combusting.

The ring of trees where he and Heather had played Princess and Dragons, the creek where he and his Mom and Dad took him fishing, the spot where Scott had broken his arm falling out of a tree.

The real question for him is where is he going to come in. Going through the front across the creaky porch would be the most direct route. IT was the guest entrance, opening from the south into a dining room and living room. But going that way meant facing the stupid smirk of Scott’s dad and a dumb remark about drinking, and didn’t he have better things to do?

The north entrance isn’t an official backdoor, more of a creaky old cellar where Scott’s mom keeps tokens from grateful patients and families. Stiles thinks it’s sort of weird, that all those little gifts are shut up in the dark like that, in a dusty, forgotten place, but every family has their quirks.

If he sneaks in, he can tiptoe down the hall across the master bedroom and up the stairs into Scott’s room. Unless his best friend has snuck into the kitchen for a snack, it’s the most likely place he’s going to be at 9 o’clock at night.

Decided, Stiles veers around to the east first, to check the driveway. If the truck is gone, it won’t matter if he goes north or south, because Agent McCall will be out with friends or staying late on a case.

As is his luck, a dusty green Toyota sits smugly, with no blue Kia in sight. Mrs. McCall must have taken the car to the hospital for a night shift then.

Stiles peaks in the west window, to see if Scott’s dad is lurking in the living room. The TV is on, some shoot em’ up, so even if he can’t see Agent McCall from here, the couch just might be blocking his view. He quickly ducks and hugs the side of the house as he circles around to the back. Getting caught creeping around is just asking for a rude comment and cutting glare.

He clicks his lips and takes a knee to re-tie his sneaker. Floors and walls attack Stiles at the best of times, and he is going for stealth, like a total ninja spy. He dusts off the snake skin and cobwebs that have built up on the handles over the past two weeks, braces himself, and pulls.

For a moment, nothing happens, so he grunts and gives it a giant jerk. Again, the thing mocks him by refusing to budge, and he frowns, before flinging himself in the opposite direction. The door comes flying open and Stiles almost falls flat on his back. As it is, he is hanging awkwardly, halfway into a back bend, and it takes a minute to right himself.

Whew. But now he’s faced with another problem: he only brought himself and his loneliness, no flashlight. Stiles goes back to gnawing on his lip, and wonders if he should just give it up and go through the front.

Hmm. Fumble blindly and hope he doesn’t break anything, or pound on the door and face a giant jerk?

It’s not rocket science. He jumps into the cellar and shuts the door behind him.

The luck god (goddess? are deities even divided into boys and girls? maybe Scott will know, his mom still drags him to church if she is off that Sunday) must have decided Stiles has paid enough dues to deserve good luck rather than bad luck, and he manages to feel his way into the main part of the house.

Stiles breathes a sigh of relief, and freezes.

“Hello, Stiles. I hope you don’t think sneaking in the back way so that I won’t call your father is going to work.”

It has to be an FBI thing, that he would know Stiles would be here. As soon as he’d shut the door, Agent McCall had materialized out of thing air, leaning against the bedroom door.

Stiles stuffs his hands into his pockets, and contemplates just playing dumb as he states at Mr. McCall’s stupid, smirky face. But this isn’t his dad, he doesn’t have to play nice, and isn’t it a good friend thing, to stand up to bullies and jerks (even if it’s their parents)? Because this is complicated, and Stiles knows Scott won’t say anything, even if he could.

It doesn’t make Stiles mad. Well, he’s mad at Agent McCall, but not Scott. You can’t just stop loving your parents, even if they aren’t perfect and are mean to your friends.

“Best friends can come in anywhere they want,” Stiles declares, jutting out his chin. “It’s an obvious fact of the universe. One of the rules.”

As Mr. McCall frowns, Stiles fidgets, because maybe this isn’t the greatest idea ever, but he just turns around and heads into the living room. Stiles blinks, because he was expecting more of a fight, but figures his Luck Buddy must have bestowed another gift.

“Don’t spill anything this time,” is the sole parting shot, but Stiles is halfway up the stairs by then.

“Scott!” he shouts, barreling into his room, because the game is up, and hey, Agent McCall is rude. “Is it cool if I spend the night?”

Scott is reading a Captain America comic on his bed, already in his pajamas (something else Stiles hadn’t considered, but they are pretty much the same size and sharing is another rule of the universe when it comes to friendship). He looks up and smiles, because Scott is always smiles, even when his best friend barges into his room with zero warning.

“Yeah, I’ve been bored out of my mind. Have you read the latest issue yet? Captain America is about to take down some Nazis!”

Stiles kicks off his shoes, and hops up onto the bed. “Nah, not yet, You know I get all my comics from you.” 

Scott scoots over, and they both settle in on their stomachs, bumping shoulders as Scott turns the pages, and Stiles reads everything in goofy voices. It’s time for the best hero ever, Steve Rogers, to kick ass.

By the time they finish the issue, it's past 11, and the duo have exhausted themselves between the sound effects and giggles. Stiles grins as they settle under the covers, glad he ran into Scott in the midst of an asthma attack (that he'd mistaken as a panic attack) last year. He's only nine, but Stiles knows friends that let you crash at their house with no questions are rare. 

Plus, even if Agent McCall is a jerk, Scott's mom makes mean blueberry pancakes.


End file.
